


Souvenirs d'une Amie des les Amis de l'ABC

by Rebelashrunner



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: POV Original Character, Reference to character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:19:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebelashrunner/pseuds/Rebelashrunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The memories of a friend of the friends of the ABC.<br/>Grantaire's younger sister reminisces on the night that her brothers died, years later.<br/>I wrote this for my creative writing project, and also have this published on Tumblr.<br/>I hope you enjoy it!<br/>EDIT: Okay, I wrote in a bit more today during math class, so here's the updated bit added to it.<br/>EDIT2: Even more was added and edited! (As of 2/7/2013, this story is at 2000 words!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Souvenirs d'une Amie des les Amis de l'ABC

How long had it been? She couldn’t help but wonder. It had been so long since her best friend, her lover, had ripped her heart out, lost his own life in the Great June Rebellion of 1832. His name had been Jean Prouvaire. He had been a poet, and a romanticist. A regular Voltaire, in fact. He had died on enemy lines, just as his fellow revolutionaries brought forward their own hostage, a spy know by the name of Inspector Javert, for a trade-off. He was brave. Braver than any of the rest of them, perhaps, standing as bravely as the revolutionary leader himself.

Jean had joined the revolution, she knew, without realizing how high the stakes of war were. The only ones she suspected to really know was the leader, Marcelin Enjolras, and the skeptic, Remy Grantaire. Her beloved elder brother. Beyond those two, none of the revolutionaries really knew that they would die that blazing summer morning. Least of all the young poet who had fallen in love with love, Jean Prouvaire.

Prouvaire had learned much in his final hours about what it was to be brave. Enjolras had been brave from the start, a true natural-born leader who fought for all of the right reasons despite his fears. If he had ever had doubts about the revolution as they began to fight, he never showed them to the other Amis. But Jean, or Jehan, as he had so affectionately been called, stood in the face of death, having pulled away from his captors’ grips just a moment before he could be saved. All done in a sacrifice to ensure that the revolutionaries kept their bargaining chip, unknowing that it had gone to waste in Enjolras' fury when he gave the man to another newcomer to kill. Jehan's last words, as they echoed through the streets of Paris, were found in the form of a triumphant cry of “Vive la France! Vive l’avenir!” Long live France. Long live the future.

Jehan had refused to give up. He had refused to let the other revolutionaries even consider doing so as well. He had refused to lose the faith he had in his fellow compatriots, the men he had called his brothers. The men who were still so young, none over twenty-five, most under twenty-three. The men who were only children, really. He kept his word. He kept his promise to fight for freedom, and the promise that he would not give up the struggle against the French Army until either France was free of its tyrannical monarch or he gave his last dying breath. Unfortunately, for all of them, the latter option came first as a gunshot fired straight through his flesh, soon followed by that of the other men. No man or woman would open their doors to shelter the men from the gunfire. No man rose that morning to fight with their brothers.

She couldn’t stand that thought. She just couldn’t. Her friends, her brothers both in spirit and in blood. Even her best friend. Her lover. Dead. Gone. Forgotten by the people of France as if their sacrifice meant nothing. As if they had meant nothing. But she would not forget. She never could, even if she wanted to. She would never forget the bloodshed, nor the look in the eyes of each man as he was shot down by skilled gunmen from the opposing army. She had been forced to stand by, watching as her friends were picked off one by one, unable to do anything to save them.

One day more she, little Felicienne Grantaire, lived on as she knew her dearest friends had died long ago. One day more she tried to continue on without those whom she had held in highest regards, above all else. One day more she tipped a bottle to her weary lips, pouring wine down her throat in an attempt to forget, only to remember her bittersweet memories once more. One day more she took that wretched gun, that damned gun that had killed Jehan and so many others, put it to her head, and yet could not pull the trigger. She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn't. She just couldn’t. She owed it to her friends to stay alive. To take everything they’d ever taught her during the years that she and Grantaire had known them, and turn that knowledge towards the future. Towards the next revolution.

Felicienne had been seventeen at the time of the June Rebellion. Now, she was thirty-three. A grown woman, and yet unmarried despite the many prospective suitors her bourgeois Aunt Marianne had lined up for her. She didn't want love anymore. She would never want it nor seek it after that night. Her amazement by the concept of love died alongside Jean Prouvaire, her beloved Jehan. But anyhow, the time had finally come. She could hear the murmurs of rebellion through the alleys, and soon enough, there would be shouts from the rooftops as well. The people were finally rising, just as Enjolras had said they would. A bit late, yes, but nonetheless, they rose to arms and prepared for a new spark of revolution to strike. Yes, she owed it to her dearest friends, and to her precious brother, to make their dreams come true. After sixteen years, the people had finally begun to rise, and she would be their guide, just as Rene de Combeferre had been guide to Les Amis. After all, with her as the so-called “puppet-master,” it was safe to say that Patria, their father-land, would see it through after all those years. Her determination knew no bounds.  
Yes, she would act as their guide in any way she could. She would make suggestions to the new leader, whoever they might be, and tell the people the stories that she knew of the boys who gave their lives for the freedom that had never come for them. Those intimate details of the June Rebellion of 1832, those facts and details that had been buried along with the bodies of those young men who were killed in cold blood. 

She would tell stories of the trio who led those boys; Marcelin Enjolras, Rene de Combeferre, and Damien Courfeyrac, ages twenty-two, twenty-four, and twenty-three respectively. She would tell tales of the hypochondriac medic, the unlucky optimist, and of the girl they loved, who still cried for them even now; Lucien Joly, age twenty-four, Pierre "Bossuet" Lesgle, age twenty-five, and their precious Musichetta, age twenty-two at the time. She would share the works of the poet, the fan maker, and the closeted painter; Jean Prouvaire, age twenty-two, Frederic Feuilly, age twenty-three, and Remy Grantaire, age twenty-three. She would even show the people the Jondrette girl, the street urchin, and the loyal, if outspoken, man who never seemed to mind a bar-fight; Eponine and Gavroche Thenardier, ages seventeen and twelve, and Mattias Bahorel, age twenty-three.

Each man had done his part, and she would gladly tell their tale. She would speak of their many meetings and each man's individual role. She had observed every single meeting, and was around these men more than any other. She had analyzed them in life, and she knew each man's flaws and strengths. She was their messenger now. She would pass on their words to each and every corner of Paris, tell every family of the sacrifice they made for their people's rights, and she would tell of their bravery and of their fall. The people would know these young men for who they were, and for what they did for their nation. She would be sure of that.

She would do what she could, and she would ensure that her brother and their friends saw that France was finally free, even in their deaths, the lives of the men who were killed at the June Rebellion were not given in vain. The blood of the martyrs would water the meadows of France, as it had so eloquently been put by Frederic Feuilly, the only man of the group who had a trade that they actually utilized to make a living. Felicienne sighed to herself. She owed it to her friends, her family, and the nation itself to do this. To live on, and fight. She would not let them down. She could not stand to fail without meeting the same fate as they had.

During the Revolution's final battle, Felicienne Grantaire met her end willingly. She saw the peoples' victory as the leader of the French Army stood down. So deep was she in thought that she didn't even realize that she had been shot. It took her a moment to register that the scream that she heard was being ripped from her own throat by an enemy marksman, a soldier who was promptly shot down in return by another citizen who fought for freedom. She looked at the man who shot her, shooting him a defiant glare as if she was saying to him, " You may have hurt me, but my life means nothing in this grand scheme. You've already lost, you impertinent pig." She would not let him see her cry. He wasn't worth her tears, nor her thoughts. At this realization, she changed her focus towards another man. One more worthy of her attention because he was a compassionate man. The leader of the French Army, a man by the name of Monsieur Commander Hadley Fraser. She knew him well in battle, and she knew he was a well-trained man.

She knew that the leader was the same man who had led the fatal battle against Les Amis at the June Rebellion, and that he still had that same sorrowful, horribly apologetic look on his face at his men's disturbing ability to shoot at women and children who fought there alongside the multitudes of men, showing absolutely no mercy towards them whatsoever. Just as they had killed little Gavroche Thenardier when he left the barricade to collect ammunition from the bodies of the dead soldiers when Les Amis' gunpowder had been rained on and made useless. She didn't care that she was slowly dying by the enemy's hands, though. She saw that man's remorse, just as she had seen at the barricade all those years ago. He called off his men forcefully, demanding a retreat immediately.

She was ready to move on. To meet her brother and her lover, and all of the others who she had always considered family. She was sick of living on in such agonizing pain without them. Even the one man who had survived, Marius Pontmercy, had left with a young girl around his age, seventeen year old Cosette Fauchelevent, and gone God knows where. She was alone. Aunt Marianne didn't understand her obsession with the war, nor why she was helping to lead it. Felicienne just wanted to be understood. To  
be cared for again. "Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!" She heard the cries, and in that moment, she thought she heard the voices of Les Amis' leading trio. " Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!" The words became a chant in her mind and through the streets of Paris. Felicienne couldn't help but smile, even as she drifted off into the darkness of her mind. 

When Felicienne next awoke, she stood upon a barricade, between her brother and her lover, where the people of France had arisen and fought that day. She looked as she had at seventeen, for those were her best days despite the hunger and the ill that often came upon her. She was thin and frail again, but she was happy here beside these men. She was truly, honestly happy. She was with the people she cared for most, standing beside them and sharing in the victory against the French government. She was in Heaven. She was home. She was with her family and friends, and she could never have been happier if she were alive again.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I wrote this for my Creative Writing class. I sincerely apologize for my horrible attempt at writing Les Mis stuff.  
> It's not very long, as it's just a drabble, but thank you for reading!


End file.
